


Homecoming

by Katherine Gilbert (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Season/Series 02 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Katherine%20Gilbert
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Katherine Gilbert.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Another early one. :)
> 
> The following story jumped me out of nowhere and forced me to write it; I don't know what brought it on. It takes place during "Third Person" and includes spoilers for that episode. It's set in one of the days Nikita has to herself after Jurgen gives her back her apartment, before her first mission back.
> 
> This story includes spoilers, as well, for "Choice," "Verdict," "Mercy," "Spec Ops," "Hard Landing," and "Brainwash." I'd rate it MA-14, though nothing particular happens in it; I'm just a sucker for erring on the side of caution.

There had to exist, somewhere in the world, something with the power to heal her. Nikita certainly wasn't finding that power in herself; she was still too disoriented. She sauntered along, swinging a small black purse, through a park near her home--well, near her apartment, at least; she didn't really have a *home*. 

She had so many memories tangled up in this place--both pleasant and horrible. She had walked here with Gray and Casey, in her brief time with them, wondering what it would be like to have a family--to have that opportunity. She had also, conversely, seen Michael's friend and informant die here; there was still a charred spot on the road nearby from the explosion. 

She had come back here more by accident than intention. Its memories---even its bad ones--held some vague comfort for her. She had known who she was when she was last here; now, she wasn't sure. 

Nikita had regained much of her equilibrium in the past few weeks, but her confidence in her own identity hadn't really returned. Admittedly, before her brief escape from Section, she had been filled with despair, but she had been certain of her beliefs. The suicide attempt she had almost made had come from the conflict of her essential core with the goals of Section. Now, she was left wondering what that core was. 

Nikita knew she would make an ostensibly easy target for purse snatchers, as she strolled along, but she didn't really care. Her body's apparent casualness was a cover for her deep insecurities. 

She had come through her retraining, had even broken through Michael's stranglehold on her mind, but her future seemed uncertain. She didn't know how she might feel once the missions started. . . .What would she do when asked to guard a Mijovich again? . . . Worse, would she able to pull the trigger the next time an innocent became collateral? Nikita stopped walking. She prayed not. 

She made her way to a bench and sat, still holding her purse in her hand. She had this life back; now, what the hell did she do with it? Should she become like Michael and learn to shut off her soul? Nikita shook her head once and dumped her purse--with a thud--beside her. No. . . . She couldn't approach her missions the way she had before, however. She had almost ended that life herself; it had led to her total despair. Was there some compromise between them, though? 

She thought about Jurgen. She had never seen him on a mission, of course, but he seemed to have things together; he really seemed to have kept his soul and his sanity, while still being in total control. She shook her head slightly and crossed her arms over herself. She had no idea how he managed it. 

Nikita's thoughts were interrupted by an attractive man in his late twenties. "May I sit here?" he asked politely. He was dressed in a business suit. 

Nikita tried not to look him over approvingly. For a yuppie, he really wasn't bad. She was too well trained, though; she knew not to trust appearances. She shrugged. "Free country," she murmured, seemingly disinterested, knowing--from her time in Section--the complete untruth of the words. 

He sat down and smiled at her. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" 

She looked back at him. He was trying really hard, in a timid sort of way. She had half-consciously taken in his presence on a nearby bench before; he seemed to have spent the last several minutes working up the nerve to come talk to her. She looked up at the sky. "It's not bad." 

"My name's Tim." He held out his hand. "I work in the Broddard Building near here." This gregariousness was obviously an effort for him. 

He seemed a sweet sort of guy, Nikita thought. His barely-overcome shyness was rather endearing. "Nikita," she conceded, shaking his hand. His touch was warm and gentle, and she pulled her hand away as soon as she politely could, not wanting to think about it. 

"Do you work around here?" he asked. 

"Sometimes," she half-smiled. 

He looked at her questioningly. 

"I do temp. work," she clarified. Her gaze got distant, slightly sad. "I'm still figuring out what I want to do with my life." 

"Who isn't?" he smiled back. 

Nikita smiled gently at him. He really was quite attractive--nice body--not overly built, hair just long enough to still be considered professional, and eyes . . . Nikita stopped, her face getting a little pale. His eyes were too much like Michael's--in the few times his were gentle; Tim's had none of the hundred-yard stare to them that Michael's could get, of course, but they were deep and liquid. You could drown in them. Nikita looked away. She had suffocated too often in Michael's to be able to look in eyes like that for very long. 

Her next view gave her no solace, however. Across the park, under a tree, a couple was picnicking. They were obviously infatuated--kissing and touching each other frequently, oblivious to the world around them. Nikita sighed. She had to get out of here. 

She looked back at Tim and smiled. "I'm sorry. I have to go. I promised to meet my husband for lunch, and I'm almost late." 

Tim looked surprised. "Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't know you were . . . Well, I mean . . . you don't wear a ring." 

Nikita gave a half-smile, as she rose. "We're still saving up for one." 

Tim's confidence--which wasn't exactly overpowering, anyway--seemed shaken. Nikita smiled at him. Poor guy. "I appreciate your sitting with me, though." 

Tim perked up, his confidence growing. "You mean I didn't bother you?" 

She shook her head. "Not at all." She started to walk away but then turned back to him, smiling slyly. "Maybe you'll find the right woman in the park, someday." 

He looked a little embarrassed, but her smiled calmed him. "Thanks." 

Nikita walked away. "Try one who isn't a Section killer, next time," she thought. 

Nikita sighed, walking further down the path. If she weren't in Section, she might have gone out with Tim--might have loved him, for all she knew. Gray had taught her, though, that there was no such thing as a relationship outside of Section. Michael had seen to that. 

Nikita shook her head, arms crossed over herself as she walked. Her feelings about Michael were still hopelessly tangled--not that this was new, but their night together--and his coldness in the weeks since--had ensnarled them further. 

She wished he would call or come by--not for a mission but to clear the air. She just wanted to know where they stood. If he had been bored to tears by their night together and would never see her sexually again--fine. She just needed to know. 

She knew that wasn't it, of course. She still understood--instinctively--how much the night had meant to him, as well. That was what made his distance so hard to take; she knew--or thought she did--that his feelings were as real as hers. 

Nikita pursed her lips and let out a breath, her hands flopping her pocketbook behind her. No one had come to see her since she had moved back to her apartment. Jurgen had told her to call if she needed anything, of course, but what would she say? "Hi, Jurgen? Could you please give me a direction in life?" She grinned to herself. Not bloody likely. Besides, Michael had told her the same thing before; it was just his way of keeping her connected to the Section. She assumed the same might apply to Jurgen. She really didn't know. 

She thought about trying to go shopping again, but that was how she had ended up in the park. She had been trying to find some furniture for the apartment, but her heart just wasn't in it; she wasn't sure she cared. After she had left the stores, she had simply started wandering, finally ending up in the park. So far, all she had managed to buy in the last few days were some groceries, a mattress, some towels, a few items of clothes, and a coffee maker. The rest was on hold until she figured out what she wanted. 

In a way, the apartment's barrenness reflected her mood; she, too, was feeling empty and lonely. It wasn't the stifling sort of loneliness she had had while on the run, but she had yet to find her rhythm within Section again. 

Her mind returned to her earlier problems; she still didn't know how to handle the missions, once they came. The veneer of relaxation she had taken toward them before certainly hadn't worked. What, then? She couldn't really be the completely cold op. that Michael was, and she didn't want to be. She needed some sort of emotional buffer, however, or they would drive her insane. 

She supposed there was really only one option: approach each one as a job to be worked through, and deal with any fallout when it was over. She just hoped the plan would keep her sane--and prevent her from turning into Michael. 

As Nikita was reaching the edge of the park, she heard a man screaming, ranting a tale of apocalypse and fury. She stopped within listening distance. 

"World War Three is upon us, and the governments of earth are just *wait-in'* to push the button!" he yelled to anyone and no one. 

Nikita smiled slightly. "Yep, pretty much," she considered. She had been in the middle of World War III for a full year--one of its unknown soldiers; the powers that be just had better sense than to call it that. 

Nikita hadn't liked street preachers when she had lived on the streets; their yelling had given her a headache. Now, though, some of the man's paranoid delusions were less paranoid than they had appeared to her then. Who knows? Maybe the man had undergone one too many intense debriefings with Madeline and was now left wandering the streets sounding like a thundering psychotic. Stranger things had happened; hell, she was one of them. 

"Will you recognize the evil one when he arrives on your doorstep?" the preacher screamed. 

"Got me," Nikita thought. 

"He can appear as the angels' servant, but will you recognize him for what he is?" he continued. 

The image of Michael popped into Nikita's head. He might be named after an archangel--and look like one, but he had fallen a long time ago--possibly at birth. 

It was a good explanation of him, really, Nikita thought. After all, he only seemed to come out of his underworld to do the devil's handiwork. He lied; he manipulated; he used his physical beauty as a snare. "Found him," Nikita thought, half-seriously, in response to the preacher's question. She smiled and continued walking. 

The preacher spotted her, as she rounded a corner near him. He pointed at her; his eyes locked with hers momentarily. "Will *you* be able to break out of the devil's web and find your way to heaven?" 

Nikita's lighter mood was broken. She continued staring at him for a minute before she forced herself to half-smile and turn away. Her eyes were sad, and she put on her sunglasses, as she walked. "I wish I knew," she murmured.


End file.
